


field notes

by DeHeerKonijn



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bonding, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My First Fanfic, One Shot Collection, POV Spock, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Riverside, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, Short One Shot, Support, The Bond, prosey for sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn
Summary: Together they are thriving.(A collection of one-shots)1] Spock and Kirk and some bugs;2] The adventures of kirk and an alien sex drug;3] Spock gets shot, an ensign gets nosy





	1. field notes

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be where I collect Spirk writing whenever I feel the urge.  
> I'm not great at it, but I'd like to get better! That being said, this is a pretty gentle amble that I'm on, and so at this time I am not looking for crit. 
> 
> This one's about some summer bugs, my fave sound this time of year. :)

When Spock steps out of the hovercar and into a velvet August night in Iowa, the chirping and humming of summer creatures is a cacophony. Vulcan has — _had_ — no night insects quite like the crickets or beetles of Earth. Vulcan days were notoriously hot, and Vulcan nights relented little; all creatures great and small conserved their energy at all times on that now-gone desert planet. The sheer volume of this sound now is as relentless and grating to him as the clinging humidity that swirls and curls his dark hair against his will.

The first night Spock spends in the old Kirk farmhouse is a restive one. 

He is there as a gesture of truce, in a way. Jim is captain now, took it from him, shines in this role like glittering stars do in the night sky over Riverside, billions of miles away. Jim is cosmic, untouchable. He is captain because Spock can’t be, doesn’t want to be. He proved it without meaning to, but Spock finds he doesn’t much care, might find some relief in depositing the responsibility into such adept hands. As he lays on the ancient mattress in Sam’s old room, he stares up at the flaking drywall and considers the circumstances that brought him to this moment. Spock is made for cool, smooth metal and sterile labs — precise, calibrated climate control in his quarters aboard the Enterprise — not for command and not this rustic, impulsive place. The shrieking and buzzing and clicking outside drill their way through his uncomfortable attempts to sleep. 

The next morning, when Jim smirks at his wavy fringe over a cup of coffee, Spock almost looks annoyed. They have hit something of a companionable stride, but there remains some considerable work yet to be done. They talk for hours as they walk the fields, golden as the sun begins to set and the birds return to roost.

The first time Jim sighs breathily into the crook of Spock’s neck, invites Spock into his mind and into his body, it is late June — of all places, they are on the front porch. Jim is playful and his tongue has a slight tang of whisky, but his eyes are alert and earnest. He speaks reverently of their shared history in the same breath that he worries the old rattan lounger won’t support their combined weight, and he stands and braces his palms against the weathered banister instead. Spock’s heart feels full as he watches the sweat-slick planes of muscle in Jim’s back shift beneath him, catalogues every mole and freckle and mosquito bite. With no neighbors for a mile on either side, Jim is noisy, joyful. He howls his satisfaction under Spock's touch out into the busy night.

Afterwards, Jim is sitting shameless and naked on the porch swing, watching Spock quietly rearrange, put himself back together. Spock looks up into the heat of Jim's eyes. This is the moment that they both realize it; the understanding hangs heavy and comfortable between them. Spock wants to speak— wants to say, “ _yes_ ,” and “ _finally_ ” because this is obviously what they’re meant to be — but the sudden bark of a fox in the distance pierces through the haze of sleepy crickets. It startles Jim so much that he starts laughing and can’t stop, and the picture he makes is so endearing that Spock can't help a smile as well.

Two years later, Spock finds himself alone in Riverside in mid December. The farmhouse is as soundless and solemn as the San Francisco ward in which Jim is steadily recovering. He enters the house through the side door print pad, and methodically goes about gathering the creature comforts Jim asked him to bring back to the hospital. The living room is a tidy nest of things they left behind last shore leave — a paperback biography Jim forgot, and then complained for a week about forgetting; a fleece throw that ended up neither folded nor returned to its home on the back of the worn recliner; the evidence of grey smudges in a shallow dish that Jim sometimes uses as an ashtray when he’s anxious and thinks Spock won’t notice. These things are all reminders of the space Jim has made for himself in Spock’s life, and for Spock into his — in some ways they are more profound even than the constant, pleasant thrum now forever at the base of Spock’s skull. He is grateful for these physical odds and ends. They are totems of their shared life that, by way of some miracle, has been given the gift of a second chance.

Even with this reassurance all around him, it is too quiet here. The fields beyond the walls of the farmhouse are empty, filled only with hoarse crows and the droning yawn of desolate spaces. Spock knows the plot of land will regain its growth in time, but for now the sight saddens him.

Three months away from the refit’s completion, Spock brings Jim home for some genuine rest, away from McCoy’s prodding hands. They celebrate the end of Jim’s physical therapy by way of walking (sometimes racing) the three miles into town every day. They crunch their way through lush deer paths with booted feet and drive the dusty length of the old I-80, all the way out past Des Moines. They worship each other’s bodies to sated exhaustion, and Spock drapes himself over Jim at night despite the sticky heat, protecting his other half from nameless shadows. They are alive and whole, and together they are thriving.

By the time Jim is inevitably at his wit’s end with too much rest and starts itching for their return to the Enterprise, the dog days—and annual racket of cicadas— have descended upon their secret world. This year the emerging nymphs are expected to come in large numbers, and do not disappoint. In the late afternoons, while Jim naps in the sun with his head on Spock’s bare thigh, the chittering is deafening. There was a time, Spock reflects, that this sound would be all but overwhelming to his sensitive ears and freshly healing scars, but that was then. Now, after Vulcan, after Khan, after all manner of crisis that have been and will be someday, with Jim sound asleep at his side, safe — it soothes him in a way he has rarely known.


	2. invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirk accidentally takes an alien aphrodisiac. Spock is Captain Consent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look ma, my first smut-words! 
> 
> I chose not to tag this as dubcon for reasons you will see below, but please go into this knowing that it’s about Jim trying to have sex with Spock while intoxicated. 
> 
> As always, I am the Curiosity Rover of fic authorship, and am not looking for critique at this time. Boop boop.

Spock should have known.

He should have seen it in the way Jim was openly admiring Spock’s body on the transporter pad departing Scadus — not in his usual flirtatious way, but in an unapologetically hungry way that made even Chekov blush.

He should have realized something was off the minute Jim started rubbing up against him in the turbo lift. Reputation or no, Jim Kirk has always respected Spock’s wish to keep all PDA behind the closed doors of their cabin. 

He should have noticed the way Jim's body temperature had spiked over the past 30 minutes, the way he stripped them both in such a careless hurry when Spock finally steered him into bed, and how his skin was still radiating heat like a Shi Kharian coal cat. 

He should have figured out immediately that the way Jim was riding him was the rare kind of rough and desperate that only comes with surviving a life-threatening catastrophe. Unusual when, by all respects, they had just enjoyed a pleasant and casual diplomatic reception. Jim was going too fast too early, and was only half listening when Spock attempted to gently intervene with, “Slowly, _ashayam_ , slowly, you are not yet ready”. Jim listened, for a moment, but in seconds his moderated pace was at full speed once again, as if he couldn’t help himself—as if he wasn’t in control of his own body. 

When Spock finally did make the connection, his hands shot to Jim’s hips and he used that Vulcan strength to forcibly still them. Jim’s brow furrowed in confusion, and, alarmingly, Spock could see there was an unnatural fog there too behind his eyes. His chest was heaving, and he tried determinedly to roll his hips a few more times before asking; “Sweetheart,— _what_?”

“I believe you are under an influence.”

“Wh—? I had one glass of wine tonight. You were there.” Jim’s neck and chest were pink and dewey with perspiration. 

“Allow me to amend my statement: I believe you are unknowingly under the influence of an alien aphrodisiac,” Spock continued, still so deep inside Jim that his hips were flush with Jim’s ass. 

The Scadlings were a race that valued hospitality over most other things, and with them the Federation enjoyed a hundred years of happy partnership. Jim knew President Johe fairly well, and was on good terms with him, so when Command advised him to divert to Scadus for a brief treaty ceremony held on behalf of a third Federation partner, it was hardly an inconvenience. In fact, their reception tonight with the bridge crew of the Enterprise was, in many ways, merely an excuse to party. 

To put it quite simply, Jim had once said to Spock— Scadlings were absolute _freaks_. They were known to be second only to Risans in their more sensual proclivities, and in addition to hosting their famously wild gatherings, served what they referred to as enhancement drinks at all functions as the cultural norm. Usually, the distinction between these sorts of cocktails and decidedly less exciting refreshments would be marked very clearly, as a Scadling courtesy. But now that Spock was forcing himself to surface from the wonderful, heady heat of physical intimacy with his bondmate, he remembered a moment at the end of the evening when Jim — never one to waste free booze— had grabbed the remainder of his drink and downed it in one go. He thanked the host graciously, and with Spock at his flank, bid the rowdy gathering good night. 

Except — and Spock had a nearly perfect memory, even when balls-deep inside of a beautiful man — Spock was certain now Jim had over-reached and mistakenly grabbed the Champaign flute belonging to the Tiepra ambassador that had been sitting to his left at dinner. It was an honest mistake, but now Jim was an insatiable force of lips and hands, making Spock’s body feel so good it was hard to think. 

As Spock recounted all of this to him, Jim’s panting and whining grew more insistent, his body temperature climbing. He rubbed a flat palm over one of his own peaked nipples, shuddered as he stared at Spock beneath him. “Ok, that might explain a few things. So what?”

“This is not an entirely consensual encounter.”

Jim stopped struggling against Spock's halting grip. His eyes were wide. He had the kind of bewildered, hyper-focused look of a first year engineering cadet trying to sit his final.

“Consensu— wh— Spock, we’re —“ Jim spluttered, “We’re _married!_ ”

“We are,” Spock agreed, always honored to acknowledge it, “But as you know, this is not an eternal, standing permission to engage in intercourse. If you were sober, as I believe you are not, you would be aware of this.”

“I promise you I am _so_ aware,” Jim groaned, but Spock noticed that it was in the tone Jim sometimes used when he wanted to hurry a conversation along. He’d flopped back onto his hands, legs still spread wide in Spock’s lap, cock still rosy and leaking. “I appreciate the concern, but, God, I’m so — we can have this conversation later when you’re not _inside me, Spock,_ c'mon!” He sounded frustrated, maybe even a little angry.

“Jim.” Spock asserted firmly. “You are not in your right mind.” He steadied his hands on Jim’s thighs, which were trembling now. 

“I feel — like — I’m gonna die — if you don’t —”

“You will not.” Spock said with finality. 

Jim sucked in a quivering breath and released it, clearly trying to get a hold of himself. He touched a hand to his forehead, “Ok. Ok. What can I — do to prove to you that I’m of sound mind and body when I give you permission to raw me tonight?”

“We must go to medbay so the nurse on duty can give you a cleanse for your system.”

“Spaaaaaak!” Jim whined. He clenched himself around Spock’s length, savoring the tingle that crawled up his spine before trying a second time to compose himself. “Baby, by the time we get down there, bother everyone, make them feel uncomfortable cause I’m all lubed up, and get back up here —“ He was panting again, clearly distracted by the mental image - as well as his own wandering hand that was now stroking himself firmly.

Spock raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You are so impaired that you cannot hold a conversation with me.”

Jim released himself as if he were electrified, plunging back into his third forced attempt at clarity. “What if —“ he panted, eyes pleading, “What if — meld?”

“A meld?” Spock repeated. 

Jim’s gaze was molten, his body firm and beautiful, held tensely as if at attention in a barracks review. Spock loved having sex with Jim in this position, where he could have full view of this man taking his own pleasure, watch him grind out completion as his tight pull brought Spock to his own. 

“Yeah, ah —“ Jim was visibly trying not to reach down again, biting at an index finger. He looked so desperate, a tightly wound spring begging for release. Under any other circumstances, Spock would have folded Jim over and driven into him hard and deep. “That time you — that time I had that mind interloper entity — thingy.” 

“I remember,” Spock confirmed. It had been a difficult time figuring out why exactly Jim had been windmilling between vicious, elated, manic emotions reliving the memories of a past he never had. As it so happened, a newly discovered microbe was swarming his neuro network. It was a fascinating case study, and all because Jim had run his fingers through some dust on an old armoire they’d come across in an abandoned outpost. Bones threatened to name the newly discovered effects on the human brain Kirk Syndrome. 

“You told me back then — god, Spock —Ah, you told me back then that you were able to, to organize my thoughts - found the real me among the other fake me. If - if you melded with me now — could you find me again in all this — this heat? I’m here, Spock, I want you so badly” Jim was obviously at the end of his rope, his words minced by breathy moans as he unraveled a final time. Of their own accord, his hips strained against Spock’s iron grip, willing him to move. 

Spock’s brow furrowed. “It is possible this could be a solution. However, if we enter a meld and I am not confident your agency is not at question, we must stop.”

“Nngh, deal.”

“On the other hand, even the topic of being permitted to enter into your mind while in such a state—“ 

“Oh for the love of — just —“ and Jim mustered up all his nearly-psi-null will to focus on the bond, slamming the metaphorical door to his brain open so hard that it would have rattled on its hinges. For good measure, he lurched forward, narrowly stopped himself from cracking his forehead against Spock’s own, and grabbed Spock’s right hand, bringing it up to his meld points. The urgency behind the gesture was so unstoppable that Spock didn't even make a conscious gesture to be swept away in the rushing current.

Experiencing Jim’s mind under the influence of this drug was like experiencing another man’s _plak tow_. The burning — Spock had never felt such intense, unbearable, frantic need from the receiving end like this. He could feel his body begging to respond to it like a primal call, but pushed forwards through the suffocating fervor. It didn’t take long to find Jim’s actual sense of self, swirling colors burning brightly and earnestly. Jim's was a different kind of heat— searing, but in a way with which Spock was familiar. Where the Scadling aphrodisiac was a supernova, Jim was a Vulcan summer, the enveloping comfort of a cast iron stove in the dead of a midwest winter. Jim was here, and he was the one who wanted Spock body and soul. 

But more urgently, at present— in body. 

_Good enough?_ Jim growled across their connection, but Spock had already let the drug overcome him, and he was fucking up into Jim’s body just as roughly as Jim was grinding down onto his. Jim hiccuped a wide-eyed moan through the bucking and bit down hard on Spock’s shoulder. The reverberating effect between the physical-mental-physical they both loved was almost too much to handle, too much stimulation. 

Spock had every intention of staying melded, but Jim was so overcome by finally getting friction that he reared up and back like a wild horse, bracing himself back on his hands again and using them as leverage as he rode Spock filthily, teeth clenched tight with effort as he threw his hips as hard as he could into Spock’s. Spock knew Jim was being loud, knew he was barking all manner of filthy words, knew they shared a wall with Chief Engineer Scott, but the lingering heat of he drug and disorientation caused by the hastily disengaged meld numbed any sort of neighborly concerns he might have normally had. Jim’s exhaltation of Spock’s thick cock and strong hands ignigted him. 

He followed Jim up, gathering him in his arms, and in a quick and well-practiced maneuver, had him on his back with his knees hooked around Spock’s shoulders. Jim arched his whole body like a cat and fisted his hands in the sheets beneath his head, finally confident in the fact that he was going to get exactly what he wanted. And Spock delivered, pushing into Jim at such a fast and hard pace that he was certain in one wild moment that Jim’s desperate moaning could be heard a million light years away, too. 

Connected like this, his mind just as sensitive as his body, Spock could feel the heat of the drug building, building, building— he reached down to where Jim had once again taken himself in hand and assumed control in firm strokes. Jim was incredible on the edge like this, heaving gasps of air, not a hint of blue left in his eyes, nothing but love and trust and gratitude cresting like a tidal wave over their shared connection.

When Jim finally came with the keen of a wounded animal, his body tensed and spasmed and clenched hard around Spock, who as always had no choice but to follow. 

As Spock’s shuddering slowed and came to a gradual end, he breathed deeply and held himself on shaking arms up over Jim’s folded form. He needed to make a move soon, lest the last of his strength leave him and he collapse his dense body on top of Jim. Jim, who was drenched in sweat and come and still somewhere up in orbit around Antares’ third moon, would not have cared very much. All the same, Spock pulled out of him gently, and sat back with the intent of taking a moment to regain his bearings. He eased Jim’s legs down off of his shoulders and arranged them open on the bed. He sat between them, then set to work rubbing Jim’s stiff knees, kneading the muscles all the way up to his hips, behind to the thick meat of his ass, and back down again. As he did this, he could feel the effects of the aphrodisiac still in Jim’s consciousness, but it was quickly receding. He resolved to keep a much more watchful eye at Scadling functions from now on — no harm was done, in the end, but he could only speculate what would have happened if Jim had drank more than just a mouthful of the stuff. Getting up for Alpha shift the next day was going to be a trial.

Spock turned, slowly and deliberately, until he could arch his legs over Jim's and set his feet on the floor. In an uncharacteristic display of lethargy, it took him two tries to get up and out of the bed. He managed to navigate the trip to the bathroom, and returned with a hand towel and a glass of water. Jim was exactly where he left him: on his back on the bed, arms arched gracefully over his head. His breathing was finally slowing down to its normal pace, and he blinked owlishly up at the ceiling as if he’d seen the face of Eros. Spock sat down softly at his elbow, and after an indulgent moment of looking down onto him, dutifully went to work with the cloth. 

Jim raised an arm and flopped his hand around bonelessly until it connected with Spock’s. He interlaced their fingers and, with a fond squeeze, raised Spock’s hand to his lips and pressed a lingering, sweet kiss to the back of his palm. Then, as if he couldn’t bear even this small range of motion any longer, he released Spock and dropped his arm back down onto the bed with a heavy bounce. 

“Are you well, ashayam?” Spock asked. 

“Holy _shit._ ” Jim croaked, with feeling. 

Spock ran a hand through Jim’s sweaty hair, smoothing his bangs off of his face. Blue eyes locked with his, and they were finally clear and bright, gazing up at him as if for the first time.

“Are you able to sit up? I have brought you some water.” He also wanted to change their very sticky sheets, but one thing at a time. 

Jim, to his credit as a decorated starship captain, rose up with only minimal groaning. He drank deeply from the glass Spock handed him, was silent in his contentedness. He let Spock pilot him temporarily over to the small sitting area, and watched naked from the couch as Spock changed the sheets on the bed and got into clean sleep clothes. They both seemed to agree at the same moment that a shower was simply out of the question for now. When Spock was done, he straightened his cotton tunic and made like he was coming back to escort Jim to bed, but Jim stood from the couch and wobbled to meet him halfway. 

There, in the middle of the captain’s cabin, he looped his arms around Spock’s narrow waist and hugged him tight. Spock responded by natural instinct, gliding his palms soothingly across the planes of Jim’s bare back, face in the crook of his neck. He inhaled deeply and they stood there for a long, comfortable moment. 

Spock settled into bed with his back against the headboard, as was customary for him most nights while Jim rustled around looking for the comfiest position. He settled with his arm again around Spock’s waist, and Spock inched down the bed to complete his hold around Jim’s shoulders. Jim smushed his cheek against the place where he’d bitten Spock earlier, and they both sighed in unison. Never had two people felt so pliable.

“Hey,” Jim slurred sleepily, breaking the veil of quiet for the first time. 

Spock was finding it hard to stay awake himself. 

“Hey. Big husband guy.” Jim repeated, patting Spock’s thigh for his attention, “Thank you.”

“For a strenuous intimate encounter?” Spock asked. His eyes were catlike slits. 

Jim laughed. “That, but also the other thing. Thanks for being so insistent about checking up on my brain. You know I know we don’t owe each other sex.” He slipped a hand under the collar of Spock's top and began running his fingers through Spock’s thick chest hair absently, alternating between tugging lightly and smoothing the tufts back down. After a moment, he stopped, and spread his fingers flat against the place a human heart would be.

“I felt it," Jim said, "When you were wondering if that’s what it’s like to be wanted by someone under the blood fever.”

Spock rubbed his thumb in small circles against Jim’s shoulder, squeezing gently. He could feel that Jim was slightly self conscious about his earlier behavior. It wasn't the same thing, of course, but the mechanics were similar. “Perhaps you understand better now why such a thing troubles me.”

They had only yet been through one _pon farr_ together. Jim had learned quickly not to take the _plak tow_ lightly, nor the conflict it brought upon Spock’s already too-troubled mind. 

“I do.” Jim said. “You made the right call.”

“We are fortunate," Spock said. His eyes were closed fully now, and a small grin stretched across his face, "If Vulcans were not a telepathic race, I would have insisted we waited until the drug had passed through your system.”

“Gawd,” Jim bleated, “That was some pretty serious stuff, I think I really would have died.”

Spock chuckled, a low and pleasant rumble deep in his chest. “You would have survived, if unhappily for a short time.”

Jim buried his face and huffed a dreamy sigh. “Never unhappy, Mr Spock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. palmistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, it all fits into place. He’s honestly never thought about it before, has always assumed Kirk had a wife back on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quickly turning into someplace where just I curate a museum of my personal particulars lmao.
> 
> I wanted to try out a little bit of action, a little bit of below-decks!  
> Not too sure if I enjoyed doing the action, but I loooove an outside POV, especially when it's a little baby outside POV. Also, some Vulcan language I only lightly Googled!

Commander Spock’s blood is all over the back seat of the speeder.

They aren’t even on a proper transport unit, but instead a zippy little six-seater, designed to hover through tight passes and the scrubby hills of Omasu-En like a swollen metal hornet. As it is, with Ensign Saraiva and Captain Kirk at navigation, Lieutenants Uhura and Hendorff in the middle, and the injured Spock laid out across the entire back bench, there is little room for Ensign Kespir to stand, let alone sit and strap in for safety while Saraiva pushes the engine to the limit. He squats somewhere in-between, bracing himself with one hand against the back partition and one against the floor, and it relieves some of the throbbing discomfort of his twisted ankle. He smells sour with the sweat of exertion, but there’s also a heavy cloud of iron that hangs in the air and sticks to the back of his throat.

“Come on, come on!” Saraiva urges the controls. Kirk beside her is rapidly naming coordinates, scoping out areas where enemy vehicles track on the sweep. A bang and a shower of pebbles rattles them as they take a turn too sharply and clip a rock formation. 

“Fuck!” Saraiva swears loudly, but they’re all in one piece and sprinting farther and farther outside the city limits.

On paper, this is an easy in-and-out, a courtesy call after the initial first contact. Kespir guesses the Enti had second thoughts between now and the last time the UFP paid them a visit, though — because as soon as the landing party gets ten steps inside the high stone walls of the citadel, all hell breaks loose. 

Commander Spock gets the first and worst of it, surprised by a phaser blast to his left side that crumples him. Kirk and Hendorff react immediately, muscling Spock out of further harm’s way and the party scatters into defensive formation. Uhura, who is Kespir’s direct superior, yanks him forcefully by the elbow. Together they tuck and roll for cover behind a carved stone structure. She’s got a pretty nasty burn where a blast grazed her arm in the ambush, but she unholsters her own phaser as if she barely notices it. Round after round, she fires at the advancing mass of armored aliens, trying to keep them at bay. Kespir’s never even held a weapon outside of Starfleet training.

He sees Hendorff drop his half of Spock’s weight on top of Kirk to physically wrestle a burly Entus away from his phaser. It discharges, hits a statue that explodes and rains heavy chunks of debris onto him and his alien opponent. He struggles to resurface from underneath the rubble — helped in part by Kirk, who does what he can while balancing Spock — and when he finally hauls himself out, a thick red ooze is trailing from one ear.

Somehow, Kirk successfully navigates the team’s retreat through the chaos. The howls of the Enti are tremendous, echoing within eruptions of hostile fire all around them until they all tumble into the speeder and the doors whoosh shut. Kespir’s ears ring with the sudden silence. Hendorff and Kirk quickly lay Spock across the back seat as gently as the situation will allow. Hendorff is disoriented and unbalanced by his ear, but does another quick head count; Kirk barks up at Saraiva and off they go, leaving the city behind. Kespir’s hands are shaking.

Uhura is strapped in across from Hendorff in the middle section of their transport, her forehead shining with perspiration. She catches Kespir’s eye, there on the textured steel floor. He must look pretty rattled, because she leans forward and offers him a reassuring squeeze of that same elbow she grabbed before, silent affirmation that he performed well today. He admires her greatly, both her strength and skill, and couldn’t have asked for a better superior officer. 

He accompanied her today with the intent of shadowing an easy interpretation encounter— his first in the field, meant to wet his ears with some practical experience… and now Spock’s grim face is just a small glimpse at the pain he must be enduring. Emerald green darkness is steadily creeping across the gray upholstery. Uhura notices too; her brows knit upwards, she glances up at the Captain.

“This is Captain Kirk to the Amalthea, come in — we urgently need you to intercept us — rendezvous mark 39.9655 — have a medic ready — Repeat: —“ 

Kespir looks up to the front of the craft, where Kirk is confidently speaking into the console. The engine roars around them, but Kespir doesn’t even have to strain to hear. He’s leaned against the dash, trying to make himself clear and loud.

After Kirk secures their meeting, he comms the Enterprise with their current status and ETA to the larger shuttlecraft they touched down in, thirteen miles outside the city. Will comm again after final takeoff. Have major injuries. Need immediate action once in orbit. Inform M’Benga. Must be waiting for us with full unit.

Kirk’s fingers fly across the screen inset. He’s a powerhouse, even by Starfleet officer standards. With nerves of steel and an IQ to match, Kirk could probably run his ship by himself if it weren’t for his unwavering trust in his people. Kespir has not known him in person for very long (about six cumulative hours, to be exact), but knows all about his exploits; everyone does. Like he admires Uhura, he admires Kirk greatly.

Kirk works his way through an invisible list of tasks until, finally, there is nothing left to do but be passengers. Hendorff has his eyes closed to stave off what Kespir is sure must be some nasty vertigo. Uhura has finally caught her breath. Spock hasn’t stirred at all. His long legs are folded in right next to Kespir’s head, and he looks down the length of the Commander’s body. He is clutching his side, brows tight with either pain or concentration, and he is deathly quiet.

“That’s some fancy piloting,” Kirk says to Saraiva and claps her on the shoulder. She beams, and her anterior frills turn a pleasant, sunny orange. 

Kirk does one more electronic sweep of the area, and then sits back to unbuckle his seat restraint. He grabs hold of metal grating above, and uses it as a handhold to steady himself as he stands and slowly swings his way to the rear. 

As he passes, Uhura stops Kirk for the briefest of moments, brown eyes large and searching Kirk’s own. For what, Kespir doesn’t know. He does know the Captain and Uhura are dear friends, but the look of understanding that passes between them now runs deeper than even Kespir can guess at. He gestures towards her burn, but she shrugs him off and jerks her head towards the back of the craft. She places both hands delicately on his sides, as if to embrace him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she squeezes past him to take the front passenger seat, helping Saraiva plug in final navigation details that she’s driving too fast to do herself.

Kespir is so busy watching his mentor that he almost doesn’t realize Captain Kirk is now folding himself into the floorspace opposite him. The maneuvering is tight, and his ankle aches doing it, but he manages to scramble out of his way and into the empty seat Uhura left behind. Here he has a much better vantage point of each compartment; the view of all six of them, the steady blips of sound coming from the navigation screen, the rattle of Hendorff’s security gear as they rumble across the rough terrain. 

Arranged as he is, he can’t help but also overhear a small groan, a weak voice he’s never heard before, and a gentle hushing in response. 

He allows himself a sideways glance. Kirk is on his knees beside the back bench, leaning on his elbows against the seat cushion. All the rigid professionalism Kespir has known Kirk to embody in command situations is gone; he can see it in the sloping lines of Kirk’s shoulders and the tilt of his head. This is the first time since their escape that the Captain has noted anything beyond perfunctory cataloguing of Spock’s whereabouts, but now — his demeanor is one of an all-consuming, careful attention.

“Jim,” Spock tries again, grits his teeth with the effort.

“Hey,” Kirk says gently, “How you feeling?”

Spock blinks into lucidity, squinting like he isn’t sure of how he got there. He looks down the length of his chest, begins to peel away the hand clutching tightly at the sticky mess at his side. He grunts in pain so suddenly that Kespir flinches.

“Easy there, big guy. Hey, shhh, it’s ok. _Bolau tu shom_ ,” Kirk soothes. 

He rests a hand on top of Spock’s, helps him relieve a little pressure there. The other hand travels to the crown of Spock’s head, alighting and then petting down, up, smoothing that precise fringe away from a heavy brow in measured strokes. Spock wearily lets his eyes shut. 

Kespir didn’t know Kirk spoke Vulcan, but is less surprised by that than the soft touches he sees reflected in the polished chrome of the paneling around them.

“I know, it hurts. Blaster got you real good, but we’re gonna take care of you, alright?” Kirk continues. 

Spock's injury looks really dire, but the captain seems so soft and sure. Kespir can’t tell if it’s because he has experience with this kind of wound or not. Men like Kirk can make you feel safe while the world ends around you. 

Spock murmurs something too quiet to hear, but it makes Kirk huff a laugh.

“I’ll let that one slide, but only ‘cause you’re having a bad day” he says, and Spock winces again. Kirk echos the sound in sympathy. “I know, it hurts, I know, I’ve got you, honey. Keep talking to me.” 

“ _K’diwa_ …Jim. You should be leading the team,” 

“We’re on the way home, sweetheart. You’re my priority right now.”

“Do not worry for me, Jim.”

“You’re my priority right now,” Kirk repeats firmly. 

Spock turns his head to search for Kirk's face. The speeder hits a dip, and it jostles everyone a bit. Across the aisle, Hendorff groans at the movement. Kirk’s fingers are still feather light and carding through Spock's fringe, pausing to chase the small beads of sweat at his temples, to trace the line of his cheekbone. 

“I am wealthy, to be cared for so completely by such a man,” Spock finally says.

Kespir’s eyes widen—he’s heard enough about Kirk to not overthink the endearments, but Spock? The man’s hardly ever cleared his throat in Kespir’s presence. Hearing those delicate, loving words come tumbling from his lips is surreal. 

Kirk’s left hand is slick with green at Spock’s side. There is a tiny gleam of gold there, too, like a twinkling planet on the horizon. 

“ _Taluhk nash-veh_.” Spock sighs. 

Suddenly, it all fits into place. He’s honestly never thought about it before, has always assumed Kirk had a wife back on Earth.

Kespir immediately wishes he were anywhere else — on the Enterprise, on some barren outpost, hell, even the trunk of this speeder would be better. He knows Vulcan, in all its dialects, knows its culture well. This is deeply private, not meant for Kespir’s ears. He wonders if Spock is so loopy with blood loss that he doesn’t realize a linguist is two steps away in a cramped metal box. 

Kirk tuts in a mock-admonishing tone. “As you should, Commander. I’m very nice to you, even when you make fun of my Vuhlkansu!”

He rubs a finger playfully along one of Spock’s pointed eyebrows, and the tension of the moment has eased. Kespir can’t explain it, but it’s as if this short conversation has given Spock a second wind, is the sole cause of what little color has returned to his face.

The engine whine begins to slow, and Uhura yells over her shoulder, “Jim, we’re closing in on the Amalthea now.” 

Kespir looks up to the front as the carrier shuttle grows on the horizon. Ensign Saraiva is a maniac, doesn’t even wait for the ramp to lower completely; a cloud of dust has just barely risen when she forces the little speeder up and into the cargo hold where the crew scrambles to get out of her way. Inside, she jerks it to a stop and unbuckles herself to begin the lock-down procedure. 

“Away team secured,” she says into the comm, “Tell Sulu to hit it, we gotta make atmo quick.” 

She slaps a flat palm against a button and the doors hiss open.

Kirk stands, grabs hold of the plexiglass partition and leans his whole body across the center aisle to peer out into the bay.

“Ok, there’s the gurney,” he says, “everybody gangway!”

Uhura, Hendorff, Kespir, Saraiva, and finally Kirk pile out to make room for the field medic, who eases Spock through the speeder and onto a sleek new hover stretcher. He is still bleeding badly, but it seems a little easier for him to make the transition, at least. Kespir’s mostly spent his time near Spock being respectfully afraid of the man, but seeing this vulnerable side of him, he twinges deeply with empathy.

The Amalthea shudders around them as it picks up and begins its ascent. 

Kespir feels stupid just standing there, but right away the field medic’s assistant appears with a dermal regenerator in one of her four hands. She gestures with it like she’s robbing a bank, pointing at a low bench they all sit down on. 

Once Spock is navigated fully out of the confines of the speeder, Kirk is drawn to the stretcher like a magnet, places a hand on him. 

“First impressions, doctor?” His voice is authoritative.

The field medic is a severe looking Andorian whom Kespir has never met. She squints at the tricorder that began chirping and calibrating as soon as the stretcher detected Commander Spock’s weight.

“In time,” is the final judgement, given in accented Standard. “We begin a synthetic transfusion, it will stabilize him until Enterprise. It is ugly, serious — but we fix.”

Kirk lets out a breath, and Kespir thinks he doesn’t realize he’s pushing little reassuring circles into Spock’s sternum. 

“Good, good work. I’ll accompany you to the —“

“It is no room in shuttle med pod.”

Kirk blinks as if it’s the first time he’s been caught off guard all day.

“Oh, um,” he says impotently, but the Andorian is already guiding the stretcher away down a small corridor. Kirk watches Spock go, then turns around as if lost, like he’s looking for something useful to do in this little hive of people who don’t need him. 

Uhura pats the space on the bench between them, and Kespir’s heart picks up when Kirk wobbles over and drops into it heavily. Kespir stares very hard at his knees. He’s not ready to be this close to his captain, not after eavesdropping on his private moment.

“Med team.“ Uhura snorts, “They really don’t fear rank at all.”

“I think Bones hatches ‘em in a lab. Sorry to tell you: Christine is a pod person,” Kirk huffs. It’s a joke, but at once he sounds so weary. He drops his head into his hands as if he can’t hold himself up anymore.

“He’ll be ok, though,” he says after a long moment. He says it like he’s thanking someone. 

Uhura reaches out with a hand and soothes his bowed back like a sister would. She doesn’t say anything, just runs her nails gently back and forth across the fabric sticking to his shoulders.

They sit in silence for a long time. 

Kespir takes the time to process what just happened to him. The events of the day. The revelation he had. His goals in life have always been Fleet focused — he wanted to translate, and to see the universe. He wanted to be responsible for treaties and accords running smoothly (without having to do actual negotiating). He wanted the prestige of being a crewman aboard the Federation’s flagship. Of course there are hazards, risks — they come with the territory. 

He never once considered finding a romance out here, and now that he appreciates the full weight of their every day dangers, he can’t imagine the strength it must take maintaining one. 

Kespir wonders what it’s like, to see a lover dying and knowing you ordered him there. Is that strength? What kind of a person could do that?

“Hey, Ensign.”

Kespir nearly jumps out of his skin. He blushes to the roots of his curly hair, and assumes wildly for a minute that Kirk somehow knows he was thinking about him.

Kirk straightens, stretches, pops his back, and when he looks at Kespir he doesn’t look any less tired. “You held it together really well today. Sorry I big-dogged you around on your leg like that.”

Kespir is amazed Kirk even noticed his sprain. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s ok,” he settles on, stupidly. All the other words at his disposal have failed him, “You had, uh, other things on your mind.” 

Kirk frowns, those things obviously still on his mind. Kespir isn’t sure if he’s welcome to keep talking. He looks back down at his hands, and notices Kirk’s wedding band for the second time today. It’s caked in drying green blood.

“Would you like a sani-pac, sir?” he offers. Over Kirk’s shoulder, Uhura watches him carefully.

Kirk’s gaze follows his down, and he flexes his filthy hands.

“Oh — hah — no thanks, Kespir.”

Kespir is still trying to get a hold on his anxiety. He leaves it at that, and doesn’t speak again until the Amalthea meets the Enterprise in orbit and they begin the process of transferring the injured crew home. He stands next to Kirk on the transporter pad; in front of them, Spock’s arms are still at his sides, but he’s been cleaned up a bit and he’s already looking much stronger.

“Is it difficult, sir?” Kespir is overcome with the impulse to connect with him.

He thinks for a minute that Kirk doesn’t understand his question - and why would he? But Kirk does eventually glance over to him. Not for the first time, Kespir feels as if he’s being tested by this look.

“We do what we have to,” Kirk says. 

They materialize back on Transporter Room Three’s deck, and a whirl of activity ensues. Doctor M’Benga appears from thin air and takes over on the stretcher; Hendorff and Uhura follow after for treatment of their own. If Kirk steals one last glance at Spock before he’s pushed through the doors to the turbo lift, Kespir doesn’t see it. 

“Get Komack on the line,” Kirk is saying to someone, and his tone is as dark as emerald green, “That bastard neglected to update us on a few recent developments with Omasu-En.” He’s back to giving commands, wants someone to queue up the call in one of the conference rooms. His uniform is torn in places, covered in dirt and grime and Vulcan blood.

When Kirk leaves the transporter room, he’s clenching his bloody fist like he’s holding desperately onto damning evidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will never not see wedding rings from me. ;) I ride or die for Literally Married Spirk!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by!


End file.
